"That," replied Mr. Porteous, "depends on circumstances. Let us, therefore, look at the whole aspects of the case. There is to be considered, for example, your original delinquency, mistake, or call it by what name you please; then there is to be also taken into account my full explanation, given in your own house, of the principles which guided my conduct; then there is the matter of the Kirk Session-the fact that they have taken it up, which adds to its difficulty-a difficulty, however, let me say, Mr. Mercer, which has not been occasioned by me. Now, review these. Consider, for example, the origo mali, so to speak-the fact that a bird endeared to you by very touching associations was, let me admit it, accidentally, unintentionally, made by you the occasion of scandal. We are agreed on that point."

man in the parish, and given over to the power of evil.

"I dinna understan't," he said, bending down his head, and scratching his whisker.

"I thought you did not, Adam-I thought you did not," said Mr. Porteous; "but I am glad you are beginning to see it. Once you get a hold of a principle, all becomes clear."

"It's a sharp principle, minister; it's no easy It has a fine edge, but cuts deep-desperate

seen.

deep."

66

That is the case with most principles, Adam. They have a fine edge, but one which separates between a lie and truth, light and darkness. You have it-hold it fast.”

Mr. Porteous threw himself back in his chair, thrust his hands into the pockets of his old dressing

"It was on that point," interrupted the Sergeant, gown, and looked at Adam. The minister's prin"I thought you doubted my honour."

"No!" said Mr. Porteous, "I only declared that 'honour,' was a worldly not a Christian phrase, and unfit for a Church court."

The Sergeant was nonplussed. Putting down his ignorance to sin, he bowed, and said no

more.

ciples seemed unanswerable; Adam's sense of right unassailable. Like two opposing armies of apparently equal strength they stood, armed, face to face, and a battle was unavoidable. Could both be right, and capable of reconciliation? Could right principle and right feeling, or logical deductions from sound principles, ever be really opposed to the strongest instincts, the intuitive convictions of a true and loving heart? But if either the minister's so-called principles, or Adam's feelings in regard to present duty was wrong, which was it? A confused medley of questions in casuistry tortured his simple conscience, until they became like a tangled thread, the more knotted the more he tried to disentangle the meshes.

The Sergeant rose to depart, saying, "I have a small Sabbath class which meets in my house, and I must not be too late for it; besides, there is no need of my waiting here longer: I have said my say, and can say no more.'

"I am glad you acquiesce so far," continued Mr. Porteous. 66 Again, observe that the visible, because notorious, fact of scandal demands some reparation by a fact equally visible and notorious. What reparation I demanded, you already know. I smile at its amount, in spite of all you have said, and said so well; nay, I sympathise with your kindly, though, permit me to say, your weak, feeling, Adam. But is feeling principle? Were our covenanting forefathers guided by feeling in giving their testimony for truth by the sacrifice of their very lives? Were the martyrs of the early Church guided by feeling? But I will not insult an elder of mine by any such arguments, as if he were either ignorant of them, or insensible to their importance. And let me just add," concluded the minister, in a low and solemn voice, laying one hand on Adam's knee, "what would your dear boy now think-supposing him to be saved-if he knew that his father was willing to lose, or even to weaken, his influence for good in the parish to run the risk of being suspended, as you now do, from the honourable position of an elder-and all for what?" asked the minister, spreading out his hands-"all for what? a toy, a plaything, a bird! and because of your feeling think of it, Adam-your feeling! All must yield but you; neighbours must yield, Session must yield, and I must yield; no sacrifice or satisfaction The Sergeant had once or twice made an effort to will you make, not even of this bird; and all be- "put in a word," but at last thought it best to hear canse your feelings, forsooth, would suffer! That's the minister to the end. Then drawing himself up your position, Adam. And finally, as I also hinted as if on parade, he said, “I fear you have taken me to you, what would the Dissenters say if we were up wrong, Mr. Porteous. My silence was not less pure in our discipline than themselves? Tell consent. Had my old Colonel-one of the best and it not in Gath-the Philistines would rejoice! kindest of men-ordered me to march up to a Take any view of the case you please, it is bad-battery, I would have done it, though I should very bad." have been blown the next moment to the moon; but if he had ordered me, for example, to strike a

Adam at that moment felt as if he was the worst

"You will return to your class with more satisfaction," replied Mr. Porteous, "after this conversation. But, to prevent all misunderstanding or informality, you will of course be waited upon by your brethren; and when they understand, as I do, that you will cheerfully comply with our request, and when they report the same, no more will be said of the matter unless Mr. Gordon foolishly brings it up. And if-let me suggest, though I do not insist-if, next Sunday, you should hang the cage out without the bird in it, the neighbours would, I am sure, feel gratified, as I would do, by sich an unmistakable sign of good-will to all parties."

A

child, or even to kill my bird, I wad hae refused, though I had been shot the next minute mysel'. There are things I canna do, and winna do, for mortal man, as long as God gies me my heart: and this is ane o' them—I'll never kill 'Charlie's bairn.' That's my last word-and ye can do as you and the Session please."

The Sergeant saluted the minister soldier fashion, and walked out of the room, followed by Mr. Porteous to the front door. As he passed out, the minister said, "Had you shot fewer birds, sir, in your youth, you might have escaped the consequences of refusing to shoot this one now. 'Be sure your sin will find you out.'" Smellie had informed him that forenoon of Mercer's poaching days.

To his astonishment he found one girl only in attendance. This was wee Mary, as she was called; a fatherless and motherless orphan, who was boarded by the Session, as the only poorlaw guardians in the parish, with a widow in the immediate neighbourhood, to whom two shillings weekly were paid for her. Adam and his wife had taken a great fancy to Mary. She was nervous and timid from constitutional temperament, which was aggravated by her poor upbringing as an infant, and by the unkind usage, to say the least of it, she often received from Mrs. Craigie. Adam had more than once expostulated with the Kirk Session for boarding Mary with this woman; but as Mrs. Craigie was patronised by Mr. Smellie, and as no direct charge against her could be substantiated, Mary

The minister returned to his study with a grim was not removed. But she often crept into the smile.

"Capital!" exclaimed Miss Thomasina, as she followed him into the study out of a dark corner in the lobby near the door, where she had evidently been ensconced, listening to the whole conversation. "Let his proud spirit take that! I wonder you had such patience with the upsetting, petted fellow. Him and his bird, forsooth, to be disturbing the peace of the parish!"

"Leave him to me," quietly replied Mr. Porteous, as he resumed his volume of sermons. "I'll work him."

As the Sergeant returned home the sun set, and the whole western sky became full of glory, with golden islands sleeping on a sea in which it might seem a thousand rainbows had been dissolved; while the holy calm of the Sabbath eve was disturbed only by the "streams unheard by day," and by the last notes of the strong blackbird and thrush,-for all the other birds, wearied with singing since daybreak, had gone to sleep. The beauty of the landscape, a very gospel of "glory to God in the highest, on earth, peace, and goodwill to men," did not, however, lift the dull weight off Adam's heart. He felt as if he had no right to share the universal calm.

"Be sure your sin will find you out!" So his minister had said. Perhaps it was true. He had sinned in his early poaching days; but he thought he had repented, and become a different man. Was it indeed so? or was he now suffering for past misconduct, and too blind to see it? It is twilight with Adam as well as with the world!

He expected to meet his small evening class of about a dozen poor neglected children who assembled every Sunday evening in his house, and which, all alone, and without saying anything about it, he had taught for some years, after his own simple and earnest fashion. He would be glad of their presence to-night. It would give him something to do -something to occupy his disturbed mind-a possitive good about which there was no possible doubt; and it would also prevent Katie from seeking information which it would be painful for him to give and for her to receive.

Sergeant's house to warm herself and get a "piece" with Charlie; for she was so meek, so kind, so playful, that she was welcomed as a fit companion for the boy. This was, perhaps, the secret of the attachment of Adam and his wife to her.

But where were the other children of the class? Mrs. Mercer could not conjecture! could Mary? She hung her head, looked at her fingers, and "couldna say," but yet seemed to have something to say, until, at last, she said: "Mrs. Craigie flyted on me for wanting to come to the Sabbath-nicht skule, and said she wad gie me a thrashing if I left the house when she gaed to the evening sermon, and I ran awa' to the class, and I'm feared to gang hame."

"But I've com'd, as I kent it was a lee."

Mary had faith! But if the Sergeant had any doubt as to Mary's story, it was soon dispelled by the sudden appearance of Mrs. Craigie, demanding the child in a very decided tone of voice, and without making any apology for the sudden intrusion, or offering any explanation.. "Did I no tell ye to bide at hame, ye guid-for-nothing lassie? Come awa' wi' me this minute!" she said, advancing to take hold of Mary. Mary sprang to the Sergeant and hid herself behind his back.

"Not so hasty, Mrs. Craigie," said the Sergeant, protecting her; "not so hasty, if you please. What's wrong?"

"Dinna let her tak' me! Oh, dinna let her tak' me!" cried Mary, from behind the Sergeant, and

holding fast by his coat-tails. "She struck me black and blue; look at my arm," she continued, and she showed her little thin arm, while concealing her body.

Father feedeth them. Are ye not much better than they?"

And he said, "Mary, dear, did you come and hear my bird whistle?"

"Oo, ay," replied Mary. "It was real bonnie; and I thocht a' the time o' wee Charlie."

"But why did ye run awa' and mak' a noise on the Sabbath morning? Ye shouldna hae been sporting on the Lord's day.”

"I was frichtened for the minister," replied

Mary.

66

'Why were ye frichtened for the good man?" "I dinna ken," said Mary; "but the boys ran, and I ran, and Archy Walker fell ower me and hurted me. I wasna meanin' ony ill;" and Mary threatened to give way again.

"Ye leein cuttie !" exclaimed Mrs. Craigie, "I'll mak ye that ye'll no clipe fibs on me! shaking her clenched fist at the unseen Mary. Then, looking the Sergeant in the face, with arms a-kimbo, she said, “I'll mak you answer for this, ye hypocrite! that tried, as I ken, mony a time to beguile Mary frae me. But I hae friens, ay, friens that wull see justice dune to me, and to you toothat wull they, faix! Black and blue! She fell running frae your ain wicked bird, when ye were corrupting the young on this verra Sabbath morning. And I said to Mr. Smellie at the kirk-door in the afternoon, when the Session was by, 'Mr. Smellie,' says I, ‘you gied me a bairn to keep,' says I, ‘and to be brocht up in the fear o' religion,' says I; ‘but it's ill to do that,' says I, 'beside yon Sergeant,' says I. I did that, that did I; and Mr. Smellie telt me he wad see justice dune me, and dune you, and that ye war afore the Session, and that's what I never was. Gie me my bairn, I say!" and she made another pounce at Mary, followed by another cry for protection. Katie had retired to the bed-room and shut the and see hoo he sleeps ower your bed,-for that's door.

The Sergeant said, "I'll keep Mary. Go home, Mrs. Craigie. I'll answer to the Session for you. No more scolding here." And he pressed forward with outstretched arms, Mrs. Craigie retreating to the door, and finally vanishing with exclamations, and protestations, and vows of vengeance, which need not be here repeated.

66

Whisht, Mary," said the Sergeant. "I wasna blaming you; but ye ken I didna hang Charlie's bird oot to harm you, or mak' sport, but only be cause he wasna weel."

"What was wrang wi' him?" asked Mary. "There's an awfu' heap o' measles gaun aboot."

"Not that," said the Sergeant, smiling; "but it was to mak' him well, no to mak' you play, I put him oot. But ye see God kens aboot the bird, and it was Him that made him, and that feeds him;

whaur Charlie used to sleep; and ye'll sleep there, dear, and bide wi' me; and God, that takes care o' the wee birds, will tak' care o' you."

Mary said nothing, but turned her face and hid it in the Sergeant's bosom, next his heart; and he was more than ever persuaded that his heart was not wrong in wishing the orphan to lie there.

"Mary," the Sergeant whispered to her after a

"Sirs me!" ejaculated Katie, as she came out of while, "ye maun aye ca' me faither." her retreat, "that's awfu'!"

66

Dinna be frichtened, my wee woman," said the Sergeant, as he led Mary to the fire-side. "Warm yer bit feet, and get yer supper, and I'll gie ye a lesson afore ye gang to your bed."

Mary blew her nose, dried her eyes, and did as she was bid.

Mary lay closer to his heart.

Katie, who had been sitting in the same armchair which she had occupied in the morning, heard her husband's words, and rising, bent over the child, and added, "And, Mary, ye maun ca' me mither."

The starling, who was asleep, awoke, shook himself, elevated his yellow bill above the round ball of feathers, looked at the group with his full bright eye, and although he did not attempt to say "I'm Charlie's bairn," he evidently remembered the relationship, and would have expressed it too-partly from jealousy, partly from love-had he not been

The Sergeant motioned to his wife to come to the bed-room. He shut the door, and said, “I'll never pairt wi' Mary, come what may. My heart tells me this. Get Charlie's bed ready for her; she'll lie there, and be our bairn. God has sent her." "I was thinking that mysel'," said Katie; "I again overpowered by sleep. aye liked the wee thing, and sae did Charlie."

"We'll have worship," said the Sergeant, as he put down Mary, placing her in a little chair that had never been occupied since his boy died. After reading the Scriptures-it was the 23rd Psalm-the Sergeant prayed, Mary concluding, at his request, by repeating the Lord's Prayer aloud. They then retired to rest-Charlie's bed once more occupied ; and the quiet stars never shone on a more peaceful home. (To be continued.)

The Sergeant's lesson was a very simple one, as, indeed, most of his were. He took the child on his knee, and putting on his spectacles, made her read one or two simple verses of Scripture. This night he selected, from some inner connection, the verse from the Sermon on the Mount:-" Behold the fowls of the air for they sow not, neither do they reap, nor gather into barns; yet your heavenly

BY GEORGE MAC DONALD, Author of "David Elginbrod," "Alec Forbes," &c.

CHAPTER VII.-POPPIE.

THOMAS woke the next morning with a welldeserved sense of something troubling him. This too was a holiday, but he did not feel in a holidaymood. It was not from any fear that Mary might be the worse for her exposure, neither was it from regret for his conduct towards her. What made him uncomfortable was the feeling rather than thought that now Mrs. Boxall, Mary's mother, had a window that overlooked his premises, a window over which he had no legal hold, but which, on the contrary, gave her a hold over him. It was a window also of which she was not likely, as he thought, to neglect the advantage. Nor did it console him to imagine what Lucy would think, or-which was of more weight with Thomas-say or do, if she should happen to hear of the affair of yesterday. This, however, was very unlikely to happen; for she had not one friend in common with her cousins, except just her lover. To-day being likewise a holiday, he had arranged to meet her at the Marble Arch, and take her to that frightful source of amusement, Madame Tussaud's. Her morning engagement led her to that neighbourhood, and it was a safe place to meet in-far from Highbury, Hackney, and Bagot Street.

it allows the face to show as it ought, and who can think of a bonnet then! But I know that they were a pair of very dainty morocco boots that made little holes in the snow across Oxford Street towards the Marble Arch where Thomas stood, filled, I fear, with more pride in the lovely figure that was coming to him than love of her.

"Have I kept you waiting long, Thomas?" said Lucy, with the sweetest of smiles, her teeth white as snow in the summer flush of her face.

"Oh! about ten minutes," said Thomas. It wasn't five. "What a cold morning it is!"

"I don't feel it much," answered Lucy. "I came away the first moment I could. I am sorry I kept you waiting."

“Don't mention it, Lucy. I should be only too happy to wait for you as long every morning," said Thomas, gallantly, not tenderly.

Lucy did not relish the tone. But what could she do? A tone is one of the most difficult things to fix a complaint upon. Besides, she was not in a humour to complain of anything if she could help it. And, to tell the truth, she was a little afraid of offending Thomas, for she looked up to him ten times more than he deserved.

"How lovely your red cloak looked-quite a splendour-crossing the snow!" he continued. And Lucy received this as a compliment to her

The snow was very deep. Mrs. Boxall tried to persuade Lucy not to go. But where birds can pass lovers can pass, and she was just finishing herself, and smiled again. She took his arm-for lesson to resplendent little Miriam as Thomas got out of an omnibus at Park Street, that he might saunter up on foot to the Marble Arch.

The vision of Hyde Park was such as rarely meets the eye of a Londoner. It was almost grotesquely beautiful. Even while waiting for a lovely girl, Thomas could not help taking notice of the trees. Every bough, branch, twig, and shoot supported a ghost of itself, or rather a white shadow of itself upon the opposite side from where the black shadow fell. The whole tree looked like a huge growth of that kind of coral they call brain-coral, and the whole park a forest of such coralline growths. But against the sky, which was one canopy of unfallen snow, bright with the sun behind it, the brilliant trees looked more like coral still, gray namely, and dull.

Thomas had not sauntered and gazed for more than a few minutes before he saw Lucy coming down Great Cumberland Street towards him. Instead of crossing the street to meet her, he stood and watched her approach. There was even some excuse for his coolness, she looked so picturesque flitting over the spotless white in her violet dress, her red cloak, her grebe muff. I do not know what her bonnet was; for if a bonnet be suitable,

VIII-11

lovers will do that sometimes after it is quite out of fashion. But will it be believed? Thomas did not altogether like her doing so, just because it was out of fashion.

“What a delightful morning it is," she said. "Oh! do look at the bars of the railing."

'Yes, I see. The snow has stuck to them. But how can you look at such vulgar things as iron stanchions when you have such a fairy-forest as that before you?" said the reader of Byron, who was not seldom crossed by a feeling of dismay at finding Lucy, as he thought, decidedly unpoetical. He wanted to train her in poetry, as, with shame let it flow from my pen, in religion.

"But just look here," insisted Lucy, drawing him closer to the fence. "You are short-sighted, surely, Thomas. Just look there."

"Well, I see nothing but snow on both sides of the paling-bars," returned Thomas.

"Now I am sure you are short-sighted. It is snow on the one side, but not on the other. Look at the lovely crystals."

On the eastern quarter of each upright bar the snow had accumulated and stuck fast to the depth of an inch: the wind had been easterly. The fall had ceased some hours before morning, and a strong